


The Time Continuum

by granatapfel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M, Marauders' Era, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 06:57:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11938743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/granatapfel/pseuds/granatapfel
Summary: When the fateful green bolt of light finally struck his chest, his last thoughts were, “’Next great adventure’, indeed”, accompanied by a mental scoff. Of course, the last thing he expected was to come to consciousness in a supremely uncomfortable position, crumpled between the impressively large roots of a tree, which, frankly, did not seem to fit any of his previous illusions of what death would entail. In fact, in none of his imaginary death-scenarios had he experienced the sort of pain that was now emanating from the crick in his neck, the bruises that seemed to cover his ribs, or even the throbbing from his face.“Oh for fuck’s sake”, he thought. Of course death hurt.Harry wakes up in 1979, determined to keep his head low, not make any ripples, and, um... oh. he's already changed history. Well, as they say, in for a penny, in for a pound?





	The Time Continuum

It had been months of fighting, running, and fear. Adrenaline had been their breakfast, and fear their supper. What they had begun as curious, fearless eleven year olds, Harry, Hermione, and Ron now found themselves facing hardened and exhausted at seventeen. When the eerie voice rang out across the grounds and through the hallways of the battle-worn Hogwarts, calling for Harry to sacrifice himself for the sake of those who would give their lives for the Light, he hadn’t hesitated. 

Walking between the tall, forbidding trees, Harry couldn’t help but wonder what dying would feel like. Absent-mindedly clutching at the three Hallows in his grasp, images of a large white room, a long dark hallway with a light at the end, and simply a vast, endless black void greeted him. At no point did he hope for a reunion with lost loved ones, or reincarnation. He was walking to his death, and of that, he was certain. 

When the fateful green bolt of light finally struck his chest, his last thoughts were, “’Next great adventure’, indeed”, accompanied by a mental scoff. Of course, the last thing he expected was to come to consciousness in a supremely uncomfortable position, crumpled between the impressively large roots of a tree, which, frankly, did not seem to fit any of his previous illusions of what death would entail. In fact, in none of his imaginary death-scenarios had he experienced the sort of pain that was now emanating from the crick in his neck, the bruises that seemed to cover his ribs, or even the throbbing from his face. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake”, he thought. Of course death hurt. 

Groaning, he rolled to his side and took mental stock of his injuries before staggering to his feet. If he happened to give the aforementioned offending tree a small kick with his foot, well, then, it deserved it. 

As he slowly made his way to the forest edge, in the distance he could see the twinkling lights of Hogsmeade. “Odd,” he thought. The town hadn’t been so lit up for months, not since the true terrors had begun. He cautiously walked over to the edge of the town, taking in the frankly uncanny number of witches and wizards casually strolling up and down the streets, catching snatches of their idle conversations. 

“- and of course, what with inflation the price of gillyweed has skyrocketed, up from five knuts –“, declared an indignant looking man, as a child skipped ahead, dragging a beleaguered looking woman while exclaiming excitedly, “-Honeydukes! Can you believe it, they’ve stocked-“.

Suddenly to his left, Harry heard an angry voice, clearly attempting and failing to remain quiet, cry, “- claims he was imperioused, of course, but there’s precident for you-know-who’s followers to-“. The speaker was quickly hushed by her companion, who was glancing furtively around. “Shut the fuck up, Vance. Never know who's listening these days, you daft bint.” The new voice turned his head, glancing furtively around. Already tucked deep in the shadows of an alley mouth, Harry pressed himself further back to avoid the probing sweep of a horrifyingly young, bi-pedal, two-eyed, and, worst of all, completely and utterly alive Alastor Moody. This was bad, he thought. This was very bad. Either death was a prick with a mind-fuck of a waiting room, or something was very very wrong.

Reeling, he ducked down a quiet street that he would have sworn had been destroyed in the battles leading up to today. Looking just to his left was a hat shop he didn’t recognize, it’s neighbour a quiddich supply store that, given the number of hours Hermione had spent ensconced in its walls, he’d have bet money was in fact a rare tomes dealer. This was wrong, all wrong. How were they all alive, where were the Death Eaters and bodies. The smoke and stench of death that had hung heavy over Hogsmeade, choking and cloying, was now replaced by wood smoke and the appealing scent of freshly baked mince pies. Pulling his hood further over his face as he crept forward, Harry chanced a glance at a discarded copy of the Daily Prophet laying on a snow dusted bench. The date at the top read 'November 13, 1979.

As if a _sonorous_ charm had been cast in his head, a metronomical chant of, "fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck" began to ring out, and, as he spun on his heels ( _Destination, Determination, Deliberation_ ), Harry knew that no matter what, he couldn’t stay here. Clenching his eyes shut against the uncomfortable squeezing sensation, he couldn’t stop himself from chanting in his mind, “I need somewhere safe to hide”, as though even in this twisted, horrifying mindscape that tortured him with a peaceful and calm wizarding world, the room of requirement could still provide a secure retreat against the evil he couldn’t let his guard down against. 

Opening his eyes, he found himself faced with numbers 10, and 14 Grimmauld Place. 

“Well, fuck you too,” he thought.

"Master called for Kreacher?" a voice squeaked loudly mere inches behind him. Letting out what he would later describe as a deep, brave grunt (it _definitely_ wasn't a high pitched squeal as the prejudiced elf would later angrily declare to visitors in protest of Harry's disgraceful behaviour), Harry threw himself back a step and turned with his wand raised. He looked down and made eye contact with Kreacher- the elf looked up at him, seemingly terrified, disgusted, and confused at his surroundings. "You's...master?", he squeaked, questiongly and looking as though he wanted to cry. "But... Missus's... but..."

As his heart rate calmed, Harry looked frantically around to make sure no one had spotted them, before turning his attention to the elf standing before him. "Uh... balls."

"Elequent, as always, Potter", he thought to himself. 

Before him, the elf let out what sounded like a mix of a strangled sob and looked as though it wanted to cry. "I wasn't here!" cried Harry, in desperation, before apparating away in a split second. Suddenly alone, Kreacher let out a quiet, "shit," before popping back into the Ancestral Black home.


End file.
